


Back to Work

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Closet Sex, Crack, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Interrupted Sex, M/M, Oral, Semi-Public Sex, Work sex, too many things so little time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He pivots a quick smile and nod to the young man from Q Branch who says hello as he passes, and no sooner does he, than Q gives Bond a squint. He points to his own eyes, then to James, and turns on his heel to follow his co-worker. “You’re going to be late, Mr. Bond,” he adds, over his shoulder.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Thank you, Mr. Bond,” James calls back, with a private smile as Q’s swift stride stumbles.</i>
</p>
<p>Silly boys flirting at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to Work

“James!”

“Mr. Bond to you.”

“Don’t you think that might be a little confusing?” Q exclaims, huffing against James’ finger as it’s laid to his lips. James’ smile widens.

“Do you go by Mr. Bond now?”

“I go by Q,” he answers, eyes narrowed, “same as before. Now will you please let me go? I’m going to be late.”

“Just a dip into the closet,” Bond murmurs. “For old times’ sake?”

In the quiet hallway, against a blind corner that the cameras’ relentless recording gazes don’t cross, Q rocks his shoulders back against the wall where he’s been pinned. Biting his lip, he casts a glance down one way, then the other, eyes fluttering closed as James softly suckles a kiss just above the collar of his shirt. Clever fingers find Q’s static-grey tie and begin to slip it loose, before Q catches James’ hand beneath his own.

“I have a meeting,” he repeats in an unnecessary whisper, eyes wide with pupil behind his crooked lenses.

“As do I,” James reminds him softly. “But there is such fun in keeping M waiting. He's too used to getting his way without trying. And look how humble you've made me, making me try. It will do him good.”

“You’re a bloody menace,” Q tells him, setting his elegant fingers to James’ cheek in a feeble attempt to push him away. “You’ll get fired.”

“I’m a consultant,” James laughs. “I work freelance.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, now let me go,” Q snorts. James doesn’t relent, aware enough of their surroundings and the pitch of Q’s tone to not push their play too far. This is fine. This is a familiar game.

“And if I don't?” He asks, brows up. “If I don't let you go, will you show me how good you've gotten at Krav Maga? It is incredibly hot to watch you practice, darling.”

“You’ll have to let me know how attractive you find it when I break your wrist,” Q threatens him, earning little more than a rumble of pleasure for his attempt at menacing. Rough lips capture Q’s and release, tease and stroke and pull away. He returns every kiss with just as much ardor, unable to veil it beneath his half-feigned displeasure, sighing harshly.

“I’m waiting,” Bond murmurs.

“I really, really hate you right now,” he mutters, before catching Bond by his hair and turning him to the wall instead. Another hard kiss drives their lips between their teeth - any harder and they’d both be bruised for it. Q pushes his thigh against James’ groin and rubs it hard enough that Bond groans, held on the precipice between pain and pleasure by one bony leg. “I don’t know what I was thinking angling for you to come back.”

“I can bloody well guess what you were thinking,” James purrs against him. He parts his lips for another kiss and freezes as Q does when footsteps echo down the hall. Seven seconds on average with such a pace before someone comes around the corner within sight, and not a single one is wasted as both Q and Bond adjust their clothes and press fingers in deliberate thoughtfulness to their lips.

“A connection made in the Service is one to be cherished,” James continues, tone much changed from the words before. “You were thinking that perhaps a return of a mind well-versed in your difficulties would ease some of the newer members of your team. It is why I agreed to return, after all.”

“How very benevolent of you,” Q responds, quickly turning the backs of his fingers against his cheeks to cool away the torrid blush there. He pivots a quick smile and nod to the young man from Q Branch who says hello as he passes, and no sooner does he, than Q gives Bond a squint. He points to his own eyes, then to James, and turns on his heel to follow his co-worker. “You’re going to be late, Mr. Bond,” he adds, over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mr. Bond,” James calls back, with a private smile as Q’s swift stride stumbles.

Q keeps his lap covered by his clipboard until their brief affair passes from memory. It’s swept away beneath the updates with which he provides M, though returns in a wavelike ebb and flow when Bond tilts a smile toward him, showing only in his eyes. Q takes solace in his professionalism, and in the company of his peers that keeps him in check. The meeting ends with a task list for him to follow-up on by the end of the day, a few loose threads that M wants secured before the next double-oh agent’s assignment.

He shivers as he makes for the door, his movement marked by the scrape of a chair behind him.

“A moment more, Bond,” M says. “I’d like you to help run oversight on this, since you know the region…”

Q grins, triumphant, as he makes his escape.

Lunch is hardly ever an affair at a place where no one takes it anywhere but at their desks. A quick bite, a sip of coffee that will forevermore be left to cool and once in a while grow a colony of new organisms on the windowsill. Several such colonies have been investigated by Turing at home. To his displeasure - and his parents’ relief - none have been found tasty enough to lick up.

James takes his meal standing, eyes moving over a huge map flickering behind a fibreglass screen with notes and circles and distances scribbled across it.

“It would be faster to take the underground,” he suggests. “There are a number of underground passages interlocked beneath the city that few people but the unsavory use.”

“Would we want to send 008 into an unsavory area?”

James regards the young man he’s teaching with good-natured amusement. “If he’s not able to handle himself against a mugger, I think we’d rather it be where we can extract him once he’s lost his lunch money.” His phone alights beside him and he swipes to open the message on it.

_Hungry?_

The name attached to the message reads a single letter, and he fights down a smile as he taps a quick response.

_Already eating._

_Shame. I’m famished. And alone._

“Would you excuse me a moment?” James apologises to the minion, who shrugs and smiles. He gets back to work as soon as James steps past him.

Q Branch is one of the few places that remains relatively quiet during the lunch hour; the equipment there is too fragile and sensitive to deal with an accidental crumb or soda spill. It is there that James heads, now, with measured steps and careful fingers against his cuffs, pulling the cufflinks free and pocketing them. 

Q is at his desk.

The entire place is deserted and James wants nothing more than to snare him close and whisper filthy things against him as he fingers him in some dark corner to orgasm.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he says.

“Not at all, Mr. Bond,” Q answers, a smile lifting his eyes, easy and serene as he stands, hands placed flat to his desk. “Close the door, would you?”

James does, with a tilt of his head and a casual loosening of his tie. When he turns back, it’s with a narrowed gaze and a wide smile, quick steps carrying him closer until circling the desk, Q sets a hand to his chest. Bond stops, and Q closes the remaining distance with a single, slow step.

“I would like to ask a favor,” Q tells him. He raises his head and their eyes meet. The tips of their noses touch and their lips nearly brush, so close that James can taste the bergamot of his Earl Grey on his breath.

“Anything,” he whispers.

“Sit in my chair. Don’t say a word. Go.”

James hums and turns his head just a little to draw their noses together again. With a warm breath shared between them he moves around his quartermaster to settle into his chair without a word, as asked.

So often at home they go hours without saying a word at all. They needn’t. James will crawl over the couch with a groan and settle his head beneath Q’s arm as he reads, dozing as gentle fingers massage his scalp. Q will press against James as he works through equations, or lines and lines of code that he needs to correct.

They make their cats proud.

James sets the heel of one shoe against the chair leg and cocks his head at his husband, eyes narrowed and lips quirked in a smile. 

Q shifts his shoulders and sighs, unbuttoning his blazer and removing it to drape across his desk. “I feel I must apologize.”

“Must you?”

With a hum, Q quirks a brow and shrugs, attempting to hide his smile. He folds his sleeves to his elbows, and tosses his tie across his shoulder. Thin hands shove firm down Bond’s chest and curl against his belly, stroking back up again. Hardly strong, but limber and notably agile, he turns to spread his legs over James’ thighs. Tossing his hair back, he slides his glasses off and sets them to the desk.

“Amidst appropriately high praise, my year-end review noted that at times I exhibit poor judgment in creating a sustainable work-life balance,” Q says. “An example could be found in my curt behavior earlier today. I wish to make amends.”

He slips from James’ lap, feline and pleased, to his knees beneath the desk.

James watches him and brings a hand to his lips, rubbing there as he regards this beautiful and feral thing between his legs. He only grunts softly when Q grasps the chair and pulls it closer to the desk, trapping himself within.

“Could M possibly have been referring to how often I make you take personal calls at work?” He murmurs, grinning when Q gently slaps him against the thigh and reminds him with a finger to his lips to say nothing at all. “You’re beautiful,” James adds before pressing his lips together.

He sets both heels against the legs of the chair now, toes pressing to the floor as he spreads his thighs and allows the hand not against his face to slip down to play with soft curls. Q’s spread lips spill hot breath against the join of his thigh, teeth snaring the soft fabric between. He turns his head and nuzzles against the bulge James feels thickening in rapid order from this illicit attention, moaning when he mouths against it.

James tilts his head to watch this act of devotion, reverent passion heating his skin to scalding. Q arches up to his knees when James tightens his fingers a little. He lowers again with a whimper - a whine - high and desperate, unbuckling James’ belt just as the door to his office makes a remarkably similar sound upon opening.

“Quartermas-... oh, Mr. Bond,” the minion exclaims. “D’you know where -”

“I’m afraid you've found me in a similarly awkward situation,” James replies, years of infiltrations and poker games enough to temper his tone to something calm and easy, not the panic he feels flood his system as Q continues to kiss against him. “I’ve been looking for him all day.”

The young woman smiles, shrugs. “Perhaps he's finally letting himself enjoy a proper lunch.”

“I’m sure if he is, he’s savoring it,” James agrees, squeezing his fingers in Q’s hair. He doesn’t hear a sound from his husband between his legs, but he feels a silent moan squeezed into a kiss against the front of his boxers.

The minion sets her shoulder to the door in a lean, seemingly pleased with the opportunity to talk with a former-agent whose exploits have become legend within MI6. “Are you enjoying being back?”

“Enormously,” Bond replies, slipping a thumb into the waistband of his boxers to bare himself. The sudden contact of Q’s mouth, hot against his cock, straightens his spine and Bond sits up higher, folding his hands on the Quartermaster’s desk. “An unexpected pleasure.”

“Unexpected?” She laughs. “Were you so ready to be done?”

James smiles, adjusting his position and spreading his thighs wider as he does. He feels Q nuzzle him in thanks before a deft hand slips against the inside of his thigh and holds him open as Q laps silently against his cock.

“Excitement wears off, in truth,” he admits. “One must find new ways by which to raise the pulse.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” she replies, shaking her head. “Did it. It seems so scary. You risk so much.”

James nearly loses his composure as Q squeezes his thigh and ducks his head to suck his balls. He needn’t look to know Q’s cheeks are hollowed, his lips flushed and damp. He needn’t look to know what comes next. Q spreads his tongue wide from beneath his balls, over them, along the underside of his cock to the tip.

“It must be nice to work with the quartermaster again, though,” she continues, smiling. “He’s always talking about you. He doesn't think we notice.”

“Does he?” James asks, brows lifted. “What sorts of things does he say?”

“That you’re a legend,” she laughs, cheeks a little ruddy. “All the time, ‘well, 007 would’ this and ‘if it were 007 on this one’ that.” She steps closer, file in hand to deposit on the desk, and Q tenses suddenly, fingernails digging hard against James’ legs. “Don’t tell him I said any of this, but the last time we went out to the pub…”

“Shit,” Q hisses, smearing spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

The minion blinks. James blinks. And then he turns to look over her shoulder, quickly enough, convincingly enough, that she looks too.

“Always gives me such a fright when someone walks past the office,” she says, turning back. Beneath the table, James cups Q’s cheek softly to soothe him and quiet him at once. “I swear these bunkers are haunted or something.”

“They could well be,” James agrees, slipping a thumb into Q’s mouth as he continues to stroke his face. “What were you saying before? About the pub?”

It’s a credit to his own willpower and the training received via MI6 that Bond doesn’t respond when Q bites down hard against him. He pushes his thumb in further, rewarding his husband with another brush of fingertips when he suckles with what Bond can only imagine to be a particularly patient, particularly grudging expression.

“It doesn’t bear repeating in the workplace,” she says with a cheeky grin, dropping off the files on his desk. “Y’might ask him yourself. It was all flattering, believe me. Did little to curb our respect for you.”

James offers her a wide, winning smile. “I’ll have to be sure to repay his favor then, if I’m invited out again.”

“You should be,” she says, bright eyes wide. “You could come out with us, if you like. I wouldn’t ask if you hadn’t said so, but…”

“It would be my pleasure,” Bond replies. He manages another smile as Q bites down again in vengeance.

With fluttering plans half-made and a rosy brightness to her cheeks, the minion turns to go and no sooner does the door close than James jerks his hand free and hisses as Q’s teeth drag against it. Dour eyes meet his own from beneath the desk, a narrow squint as much from near-blindness as from spite.

“Move the chair,” Q tells him.

“Not until you tell me what you said,” James tells him, working to put himself away again, shaking his hand gently to rid it of the throbbing pain left by Q’s teeth. “Petulant boy, you claim you barely think about me at work.”

“I don’t.”

“But you talk about me.”

“Not at work.”

“Liar,” James says, digging his heels hard against the ground as Q tries to push the chair back. “Tell me, or I’ll keep you down here until M comes to find you.”

“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”

“A liar twice, then,” muses James.

“I told them,” Q begins, words cut off by a hard sigh. “Does it really matter?”

“Oh yes, I’m afraid it’s of paramount importance.”

Q sucks his lips between his teeth and chews the bottom one, a crease in his brow. He slides back to sit on his bottom, spine against the inside of the desk. His voice echoes as he mutters, “I told them you were 007 in the field, but a double-oh ten in bed.”

James regards him a moment more before sliding the chair back and slipping to his knees before his husband, curled and pouting on the floor. 

“What did I ever do right in my life to deserve being loved by you?” James asks him. Q lifts his eyes to glare, blinking once before James reaches to get him his glasses. He sets them to Q’s nose and kisses his cheek when he avoids a kiss on the lips. “You are bloody adorable, do you know that?”

“Shut up,” Q mumbles as James snorts against him.

“What was it, three beers?”

“I hate you,” Q declares, but James can feel his smile against his lips when he kisses Q next.

“Shall I stay this hard all day in penance then?” James asks him, tone warm and low, purring against his ear. “Not a moment of relief until we get home?”

“Absolutely,” decides Q, licking the taste of his husband from his bottom lip, a sly smile in his eyes as James watches the movement. “And you’ll love it.”

Without argument, Bond relents enough to let Q squirm past him, though not lacking a few carefully placed gropes and fondles, and Q finally emerges from beneath the desk, splayed to the floor. Inch by inch, he drags himself upward, and standing, straightens his clothes and tucks his cock aside to be a less overt bulge between his legs.

Clearing his throat, the Quartermaster takes up his jacket and slides it on again, watching James narrowly as he too emerges in kind.

“You are a cruel taskmaster,” Bond tells him, and with a wry smile, Q gathers his delivered files and turns to go.

“Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Bond. It seems that a taste alone must suffice for me.”

Q resumes his day, as it were, with only occasional distractions as to the condition in which he’s left his husband. It had been only three beers at that particular outing, but given Q’s tendency to forget lunch and his slight body-mass, they’d gone quickly to his head and rendered him insensible. Memory loss has never occurred during one of the Division pub nights, but the presence of alcohol renders a socially acceptable reason to conveniently forget the things he says when his tongue is made loose.

They pass each other in the hallway once, and Q skillfully ducks a grab to continue on his way.

James, to his credit, does not seek Q out again to tease him. He smiles at him when they see each other. He adjusts the way he stands so Q can see him at his full height with shoulders spread and hips cocked, and returns to work.

By evening time Q aches for him, as he does every evening before he makes his way to the tube on his way home, but more so, now, having seen him all day and come so close to getting off and getting him off.

Terrible. James is a terrible influence on him.

Q waits until the lights begin to dim in the offices around them. He watches James stand with legs apart and arms crossed before the map as he directs a minion to work on it. He watches and he waits. He considers calling him, making up an excuse, watching him obey...

No. No, both of them will wait. Both of them have earned that delayed pleasure together. 

Q takes the opportunity of a nearly empty office around them to watch his husband, clever and proud, guide the young man he’s teaching. He’s confident and funny, giving good advice in a way that can be remembered. The young man that Q once interviewed, who seemed nearly too nervous for the work, now laughs and acts with assuredness under James’ direction. Q considers for a moment that James would make an excellent father, and finds the thought both welcome and distressing.

He looks at James’ ass, instead. Curved pert beneath his trousers, his jacket cast aside, Q follows with close attention the particular curve of it. He knows how that ass tastes, musky and warm, how it feels firm and delicate all at once beneath his hands, how it clenches hard when he rocks himself inside it. He knows how it looks freshly fucked and dripping, how it pushes back against his hips to beg wordlessly for more.

Q tucks a pen between his teeth to keep himself quiet, feigning attention to his work as he listens absently to their conversation.

It ranges from advice to anecdotes to jokes and puns that work well to help remember the discussion at hand. Q finds himself snorting softly at some of them, turning a page in his own notes to cover the sound. It seems to take forever for the young man to leave, shaking James’ hand and nodding to Q when he looks up to watch him go.

The door closes behind him with a reverberation that sinks right to Q’s bones and he immediately looks to James...

To find him gone. Not there. Not in that room, not in Q’s office, not anywhere near.

“Bollocks,” he sighs, pushing to stand and setting his pens back to the mug he keeps for that purpose - old dry coffee mingled with the occasional spilled ink blotch. He moves towards the corridor to see if perhaps James had followed the young man out, needing fresh air, and finds himself immediately snared and yanked into a small dark enclosed space. Panic shoves his hands hard against a firm chest, curling away from his captor.

A breath against his cheek that smells and feels and tastes of home calms him again. Q folds his arms around James’ middle, pushing his hands up his back and into his hair. He clutches sleek strands and squeezes them tight, groaning low against his husband’s mouth.

“Finally,” Q mutters, laughing as he’s turned and his back is pressed to the door.

“You were watching me.”

“Closely.”

“From behind.”

“Thinking of all the things I can’t bloody wait to do to you,” Q confesses, twisting their mouths together in a harsh kiss. Their breath hisses against the other’s cheek in the quiet of the janitorial closet. It’s the same place they used to meet for quick trysts and handjobs when they worked together before. Rife with the scent of cleaning agents, Q bucks up hard against James’ body, shoving together cocks and hips and stomachs and chests.

James hums and ducks quickly to hoist Q up against himself and against the door, following the graceful curve of his legs that wrap around James’ hips on reflex. He will do anything for him, any bloody thing.

“You chewed your way through three pens today,” James comments, breathless and warm against Q. The closet is dark, and only the thin line from the bottom of it lets light in at all. “Fellating two of them so preposterously, I’m shocked no one else noticed.”

“You’ve driven me damn near mad today,” Q scolds him, catching James by the jaw and holding him firm. A feather-soft kiss grazes James’ lips before Q releases him, laughing as Bond buries his face against his throat to suck a mark beneath his jaw. Q pulls his hair and arches, rubs against him and squirms. “A bloody distraction.”

“You work too hard,” Bond reminds him, and Q snorts, arms curled around his neck.

“I’m too hard at work,” he counters, pausing for a moment before laughing at his own joke. “Just take me home.”

“Not yet.”

“Bond…”

“Bond,” James answers, and again Q snorts a laugh against him.

He squirms free, pointing his feet to the floor, twisting loose of his husband’s embrace. A swift duck and turn and he’s at James’ back, allowed to be, with an arm slung around his chest and a hand firmly on his stomach. He pushes their bodies together, rutting hard against the ass he’s watched for hours.

“What’s your excuse for having a limp tomorrow, 007?”

“A tragic accident in the Himalayas,” he says, “involving a helicopter, two motorcycles and a man named Edward.” James sets his hand against Q’s where it’s set to his stomach and he threads their fingers together. He turns his head just enough to catch Q’s eye and smirks, arching and rocking back against him again. “Or I could confess that my husband had me bent over in bed all night, fucking me senseless.”

“What would your pupil say?” Q murmurs against him, grinning between James’ shoulders as he sets his feet against the insides of James’ own, to slowly spread them wider apart.

“‘May I join you, Messrs. Bond?’” James offers, snorting his own amusement as Q gently slaps his chest and laughs.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you. Another notch in your belt. Another winsome and promising young man drawn under your -”

“You’re not speaking about yourself, I hope. Little minx, you had me from the first cock of your hip and arched eyebrow.”

This time, the slap falls hard against Bond’s rump, thudding firm in the constrained space. With little pause, Q works open his belt, his fly, shoving down trousers and pants alike to bare him roughly. A firm rock brings his clothed cock to the cleft of James’ ass, and Q rests his head against his husband’s shoulder with a heady groan.

“A helpless and innocent servant in Her Majesty’s Own,” Q murmurs, grinning as he begins to bare himself in turn. “Seduced by a delinquent agent gone rogue.”

“I wonder if they know,” James murmurs, nuzzling against the door, “that double-oh-ten in the bedroom loves so much to bend for his quartermaster.”

Q slaps his hand down against bare skin this time. James draws a breath and hums it free with a shiver.

“I imagine they would be rather surprised to find that out. More than a little turned on. I certainly was when I discovered it.” James rocks back against Q’s cock once he bares it, dropping one hand from the door to curve back against Q’s hip and bring him closer. 

“Just because I’m smaller than you,” Q adds with a grin, “doesn’t mean I can’t bring you to bloody tears beneath me.”

James’ groan pours out against his arm, bent against the door, voice muted to keep himself quiet. He hears the soft click of spit as Q wets his palm, the whisper of wetness as he slicks himself. Elegant fingers curl damp against his hole and stroke the wrinkled muscle to relaxation in only a few practiced presses. He bends deeper as his husband aligns himself against his entrance.

A gentle thrust breaches him. Bond’s fingers curl to a fist as he sighs out hard, emptying his lungs in an instant. Q’s hand wraps around his cock to tug in lazy strokes as he enters him, the friction harsh and the spread so sudden it aches. So many times they’ve met in this particular closet, just like this. So many times they’ve found each others’ mouths and hands and bodies warm and ready for them in this private place, secured from the prying eyes of others.

“Just like old times,” Q whispers, laughing throaty and rough with want. “God, I’ve missed you, 007.”

“Don’t stop,” James breathes, tensing and relaxing beneath his husband. He is very close, teased all day by the constant rubbing between his legs, cock leaking against the snug silk boxers he wears. There is no crueler pleasure than watching Q boss his minions around with such authority and genuine kindness beneath.

“God, remember the first time you dragged me in here?” James whispers. Q laughs, warm and slow against him.

“I don’t think you even had to touch me for me to come.”

“No,” James agrees, holding his breath and groaning it out again. “No, I managed to kneel, before you painted my skin.”

“Christ,” Q whispers. He remembers it, in blinding flashes of pleasure, like flashbulbs firing to illuminate each ribbon of come that unspun across Bond’s face. His agent, then. His paramour. His lover and then his friend. His husband now, who reaches to take his free hand, and folds their fingers together.

A hard thrust rattles the door. Another rips a moan from Bond. On the last, Q buries himself so deep he’s on his toes and trembling, panting breathless gasps against his husband’s shoulder, pumping in shuddering movements inside of him. He empties himself entirely, a day of agonized waiting and endless interruptions. He clings hard to James’ fingers, squeezes firm around his cock, filling him with pulse after pulse of pleasure too long delayed and too quickly ended.

“You were beautiful like that,” Q whispers, lips parting dry and throat clicking on a hard swallow. His embarrassment burns hot across his cheeks in counterpoint to his body’s sudden weakening. He drops back to his heels and nearly stumbles, but for how James holds him close. “I’m sorry, James, I thought I could… for longer, you know, but after all day... “

“God, you're lovely,” James tells him, nuzzling into his arm in lieu of drawing his nose against the curve of Q’s neck to where it meets his shoulder. “Every time, you worry so much and you are just bloody radiant.”

The words are spoken with such adoration, such genuine awe that Q can do little more than kiss against the sweaty short hair at the base of James’ neck and tug his cock again. An endless embarrassment for him, regardless of years and partners who have assured him it is hardly a thing to worry over.

James loves him for it.

James cannot and does not lie.

“God, Q, just there, just like that,” James breathes, words muffled against his sleeve. “Just like that -”

Q focuses, his attention to this as sharp as to anything else with which he’s tasked, but with far more enjoyment. He sets his chin to James’ shoulder and watches him through hooded eyes, the flickering tension in his jaw and the way his lips unfurl like flower petals with every short breath he takes. Skilled fingers squeeze at base and head, stroking firm along his shaft. His thumb rubs against the slit each time his hand curls over his husband’s cock.

“Did you watch me today?” Q asks, slowing his strokes just enough to keep James at bay, playful with this skill of his that Q lacks, to restrain and sustain.

“All day,” whispers Bond. “Q, please…”

“Did you imagine this?”

“And more,” he laughs, low and aching. “So much more as soon as I can get you home and bare.”

“Will you bend for me again?”

James shudders, balls drawing tight and muscles tensing. He nods, quick jerking things. “As soon and as often as you tell me,” he promises.

Q kisses against his neck, delighting in teasing his agent more, just with touch and warm breath against his skin. This is a game, always. Should James find his endurance faltering Q will hardly blame or punish him for it but in play. Yet there is an unspoken and binding thing between them with their words and their promises, and though James whimpers when he next draws a breath, he stoically holds his pleasure at bay.

“When we get home,” Q whispers.

“Yes.”

“First point of call will be the shower.”

James curses. “Yes, God.”

“I will feed the cats while you get it ready, set our towels to warm, crack open the windows.”

His agent shudders and coils forward, panting hard against the door. He squeezes Q's hand tightly before relaxing his grip, but never letting him go.

“And then I would have you bent deep over the edge of the tub, just for me.”

“Q -”

“Now, 007.”

The words are familiar, associated once with imminent peril and now with immediate pleasure. Q releases James’ fingers to cup his free hand around his cock, as strings of come rope hot against his palm. He milks him with languid twists of his wrist, tugging loose his release, praising him with whispered words of adoration. The same voice that has seen James through unfathomable trials and tremendous adversity. The same voice that brought him home again every time.

The same voice that now promises home, and passions to be spent, and a bed to be shared for as long as they both draw breath.

James laughs, fingers splaying against the door where his arm rests. He turns to face Q and leans back when his Quartermaster rests heavy against him. Q keeps his wet hand aside but raises the other to James’ cheek, cupping his jaw to draw him into a kiss.

“My favorite distraction,” Q sighs, smile widening into a brash grin when James nuzzles his cheek. “Take me home.”


End file.
